


Menthol and Madmen

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime Scenes, Gen, POV Sally Donovan, Possibly don't have eaten recently?, Sally does not like Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 19:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11387250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: Sally watches the freak and his sidekick having fun at a crime scene.





	Menthol and Madmen

**Author's Note:**

> For JWP #2: Summer in the City

“He’s unreal,” breathed Sally, mopping her forehead and then batting at the flies that were utterly determined to make it into the eyes of everyone within a hundred metres. “Did he take any menthol?”

“Him?” Greg snorted, and then looked like he regretted the associated sharp inhalation of insect life and the thick atmosphere. “Wouldn’t even let John have any. ‘Interferes with the senses’ apparently.”

“Well, _yes_!”

God, Sally could barely breathe even _with_ the thick layer of pungent cream underneath her nose which utterly failed to block out the horrifying smell. It was barely even diminished here, just inside the tape which the constables had placed in a much wider perimeter around the bank of the Round Pond than was standard practice, but which had been necessary for the comfort of officers and passing civilians alike—not to mention the cranky tourists who’d had to be diverted from the entrance to Kensington Palace.

Apparently that sort of thing didn’t bother the freak, though; the tall figure in his aubergine shirtsleeves danced and spun and jumped for glee between the bodies as though he’d always dreamed of a trio of newly discovered corpses, rotted completely beyond recognition by the warm water in the summer heatwave. He leaned in to run gloved fingers along the lines of limbs or turn over layers of clothing, squatted down to put his face right in there too, even knelt right into the pool of oozingly thick water that was slowly but surely collecting in putrid puddles around the still forms.

Not for the first time, Sally felt a pang of sympathy for the man’s dry cleaner.

Watson, whose only concession to the heat seemed to be a loosened top button, looked on with a complete lack of the revulsion that was obviously appropriate to the situation. He seemed as unphased by Sherlock’s psychopathic delight in the smell of death as he was by the oven-like heat that had brought it on, or even the thick cloud of flies that swirled around them both. It really only went to show the only types who would willingly hang around with the freak.

She’d given up on questioning Greg bringing him in, at least on crime scenes like this: ones where they had nowhere to start and the only alternative was dropping the whole file straight into the ‘cold case’ box. Sherlock really _did_ give them a crucial starting point, sometimes. When they could actually manage to pry the details of it out of him, and prevent him from haring off on some unprovable hunch, spooking the perpetrator, and contaminating the entire case.

Sherlock froze abruptly in his place, hovering right over one of the bodies, and sniffed the air. He dipped lower, his arms spread wide and fingers set in the soil to hold himself up, like a great purple bird of prey settling atop its victim by the side of the road. He gave a single glance up at Watson, before leaning in and—God, was he _licking_ the corpse’s _ear_?

Feeling like she was about to choke on bile, Sally started moving towards the bodies, ready to intervene no matter what Greg thought—but before she could travel more than a step, the freak’s sidekick made a sharp comment, which rocked Sherlock back onto his heels mere moments before his extended tongue would have made contact contact with semi-liquid flesh beneath him.

Sally exchanging a nauseated look with Greg and settled back into her place, not at all eager to complete her intended action and get any closer than she needed to. Not only because of the smell.

There was a brief inaudible exchange between the two civilians on the scene, then Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and stood back, spreading his hands in a wordless “Be my guest!”

Watson shot him one last glare before kneeling down in Sherlock’s place. The freak looked on indulgently as the man leaned in close to the corpse’s ear, sniffing carefully. Sally started moving again, but would have been too late in any case as, at a further prompt and with obvious reluctance, Watson extended the smallest portion his tongue to taste the air… and then sat up abruptly, staring at the freak in apparent wonder.

They exchanged a familiarly breathless grin that made Greg jump and hurriedly stride right past her to catch them before they could rush off. The police had to get at least _some_  kind of lead in exchange for their joyride through someone’s tragedy.

Sally turned back to the tape and shook her head, more in an effort to confound the flies still trying to get at her than in any real disbelief.

It was no wonder her well-meant warnings to Watson had fallen on deaf ears; those two freaks were obviously made for each other.


End file.
